Beer, blood, broken glass; Writer BRIAN DOYLE recently brought down the house at the Elmdale with his own quirky history of the infamous watering hole. With news the tavern is being taken over by the Whalesbone eatery, we thought his memories deserve a wi

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The Elmdale. I never thought I’d see the day when this storied and wonderful and intimidating dump of a joint would actually be hosting cultural events.

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I was here then, the way things used to be. And I’m privileged to be here now to take part in this new Elmdale ambience.

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Things have certainly changed. This is a different Elmdale, no mistake. Still hard to get used to.

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Cultural events taking place.

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Music. Drama. Improv. Readings. E-books.

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Oh, there was a culture here, don’t get me wrong. But it was a different kind of culture.

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I was one of the founding members of a touch football organization here. This was our headquarters and conditioning centre.

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Our training table consisted mainly of beer and Chuckwagons. The Chuckwagons were especially tasty when overcooked, causing the cellophane wrapping to melt into the Cheez Whiz topping and onto the greenish coloured meat.

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It wasn’t a touch football LEAGUE, by the way. It was just one team. Us.

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We were called “The Dildos.”

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We were aptly named. For two reasons. One: like dildos, we were merely facsimiles. Two: since we were the only team, we played with ourselves.

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You may be familiar with the names of some of our regulars from that time:

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There was Mike Paradis, master teacher and culture critic;

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There was the late Keith Clarke, musician and our official Commissioner of Football.

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Bobby Gairns, author, speech writer, aboriginal Order of Canada;

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The late Jay Roberts, retired Ottawa Rough Riders player and crime novel aficionado;

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Charley Gordon, author and humorist;

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Senator Jimmy Munson, who wasn’t a senator then;

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Peter Connolly, political fixer and executive insider;

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The late Billy Cooper, retired Rough Rider and lover;

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Bruce McGregor, running commentator and lead singer of Bruce and the Burgers;

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Ian McKercher, teacher, author;

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Lawrence Gladue, Order of Canada, sleepy Cree;

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The late Ed (Hush Puppy) Long; The late Frank Long, undercover mounted police;

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The late Ray Monnot, Olympian, manager of the PMO;

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The late Mike Sheehan, the late David (Snake Man) Aldwinckle … the late, the late, the late …

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We had an athletic banquet every year; speeches, game films, awards. We sent out invitations.

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Sounds like putting on airs, doesn’t it? … “You are cordially invited to the Annual Dildo Athletic Banquet.”

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I won the same award every year for 15 years. The name of the award was the O.L.D. Nobody could beat me at this position.

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O.L.D. stood for Oldest Living Dildo.

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I began winning the award in the second year of our franchise’s existence.

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The reigning O.L.D. at the time opened the door for me by dropping dead while he was running for a pass. He was running, if memory serves me, a down-and-out.

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With characteristic sensitivity, Commissioner Clarke, in his eulogy, told us it didn’t matter, he wouldn’t have caught it anyway.

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We were a proud bunch. Smartly turned out.

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Elmdale co-owner John Cowley, also a proud Dildo, unfairly maligned as being a cheapskate, almost bought sweaters for our team.

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My daughter, Megan, was also proud. In Grade 3, she did a classroom talk entitled, “My Dad Is a Dildo!”

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I got a call from the principal and had to go over twice and talk to the guidance counsellor.

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Yes. The Elmdale. What a culture change!

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The rules are different now. For instance, if you fall asleep at the table, owners Natalie and Bruce Myles will ask you to leave.

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It was different then. Scene: a drunk came in. Said he was going to meet his brother here. Hadn’t seen his brother for 10 years. Comin’ over from Nova Scotia, he was.

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After four quarts of Molson Golden, he put his head down on the table and went into a deep sleep. A bit later, the brother showed up, also drunk.

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“Supposed to meet my brother here,” he says. “I’m just in from Nova Scotia.”

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“That’s him over there,” says head waiter Marcel Lepage. “How long’s he been here?” says the brother.

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“Oh, a couple hours.”

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Now the brother sits down and has a couple quarts of Molson Golden and pretty soon joins his brother on the table for a deep nap.

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A while later, the first brother wakes up and says, “How long’s he been here?” and goes right back to sleep.

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Marcel the waiter’s observations regarding these goings on were always relevant and pungent.

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“These kinds of family reunions are always the best kind,” he said. “You can get together every 10 years, but you don’t have to talk to each other!”

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Marcel was a noted linguist. His French translations, however, tended to be overly literal. Kind of like the ones you hear during Question Period in the House of Commons these days.

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For instance, his translation of the phrase “ma mère, m’appelle” was interesting. Ma mère, m’appelle — my mother is calling me — came out, “my mother, my shovel.”

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During a teacher’s strike in the 1970s I got a job at the Elmdale as a waiter. My wife was initially in favour of the idea. Pick up a little extra money.

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Marcel broke me in. My first shift here was a challenge. Marcel lent me his leather change apron and showed me where to keep the nickels, dimes and quarters in those pouches around my waist.

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I was to start at 6. I was feeling quite on edge and apprehensive. My chief concern was making change. You see, my poetic nature rendered me weak in the area of mathematics.

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At five minutes to 6, I went into the can for a nervous pee. I lifted my apron to unzip and all my nickels, dimes and quarters slid out and down into the urinal.

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While I was on my hands and knees picking out my coins, two horrible looking bikers came in and, while they were urinating on either side of me, they made a series of lewd remarks that I cannot begin to replicate because now the Elmdale is so, well, lah dee dah!

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At six o’clock, my very first customers turned out to be the two bikers.

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I brought them their beer and when I was finished giving them what I was sure was too much change, one of them threw a nickel on the floor and ordered me to pick it up because, he said, he and his buddy really enjoyed me in that position for obvious reasons which I can’t outline now because the new Elmdale is just too lah dee dah …

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Do I pick it the nickel and suffer humiliation in front of all the other patrons, most of whom were regulars, or do I refuse and instigate a physical altercation?

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Not a great choice for a poet.

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Marcel, who was watching over me from the corner, walked over and, with the quick diplomacy for which he was so famous, solved the situation to everyone’s satisfaction.

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He hit the first biker so hard it was said later that they heard his nose crack across the street at the Giant Tiger.

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Projectile blood flying. Then, with a sickening thud, the second biker discovered what it was like to have your head used as a battering ram against the door as you took your leave.

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It was a terrifying 30 seconds.

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Drama and improv!

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Marcel then showed me where the mop and pail were kept, and I learned how to swab up the three Bs: beer, blood and broken glass.

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Except for my difficulties making the right change, things ran smoothly until around 10 o’clock.

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A familiar table of City of Ottawa employees, notorious as practical jokers, called me over and asked me did I ever clean the tables because theirs was very sticky.

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In fact, one of their empty beer glasses was actually stuck to the table. I tried the glass and sure enough, it was stuck, all right.

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Just then very big farmer, a stranger in town, came over and said he could get that goddamn glass off the table. The glass, which had been crazy-glued on there, shattered and ripped a gash up his arm, severing a large vein.

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The big farmer then reeled and staggered about like Jimmy Cagney in the prison scene from the movie White Heat, knocking over tables and howling for his mommy.

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Then he fainted dead away in an award-winning finish. An ambulance came and took away the big farmer.

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I got another pail of beer, blood and broken glass cleaned up and disposed of.

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A while later, a vicious argument broke out over what channel the TV should be on. Hockey or Lawrence Welk.

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Cultural differences in taste.

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Marcel, always the accommodating host, anxious to smooth things over, unplugged the TV and told them if they didn’t like it they could always go to hell home, the whole bunch of ya!

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I learned a lot during that first of many 6 o’clock shifts about Elmdale culture.

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When I finally got home that night, soaked in beer and bloodstained, my wife drowsily asked how it went.

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“Not too bad,” I said. “I’m only down $30!”

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